Love and Baking
by Eleyn
Summary: I had three great loves in my life. The first I discovered very early.
1. Chapter 1

_Ellen Lovett stands all alone in her empty shop. The once-immaculate premises are now coated with dust, and everywhere there is evidence of mice, making tracks through the grime. Yet Mrs. Lovett is distracted and pays no attention to the dirt and dust around her, and merely watches her distorted reflection in the bottom of a metal mixing bowl. She turns her head, examining the way the skin has begun to loosen around her eyes, and how her once fiery locks have begun to fade and yellow._

_ When did I start getting old? She wonders. It's in all the little things, the way I have to stop to catch my breath after bending down over the oven, or these. She tugs up on the corner of her eye, briefly smoothing the bags and the crow's feet in the corners. She remembers the sparkle that used to reside in there._

I had three great loves in my life. I discovered my first very early, when I was just a bit of a thing. Every day, when my father came home from the docks, he'd want something on the table. It was my responsibility to provide dinner, and it was my favorite part of the day. I'd toil over our meal in the tiny kitchen in the room we rented, trying to make something tasty, while using cheap ingredients, like day-old bread, or the fish heads my father had brought back the day before. I wasn't always successful, but it was a labor of love for me: the ability to transform scraps into meals.

"Nell," Papa would say, "some day, you're going to make a fine wife for a lucky man." And then I'd smile. No matter how bad the meal tasted, my father would always exclaim that it was delicious, and eat every bite.

_Ellen puts down her mixing bowl with a sigh. She flicks a bit of grime from the edge, and slips it back onto its shelf. It's rather optimistic to be using this bowl, she thinks to her self, as she grabs another, smaller bowl, and sets it down on the counter. The smaller bowl is a reminder of the daily hardships she faces._

One day, Papa came back from the docks with a big smile on his face.

"Nell!" He shouted. "Today was my lucky day!" And he slapped a pound note on the table. I stared in disbelief. It was the most money that I had ever seen in my entire life. "I want you to have it," he told me. "I was walking home, thinking about my little girl, when I turned down the wrong street. I never get lost," Papa added, "but I was thinking about what a blessing you've been since your mother died, and how I wish I were able to provide more for you, when I kicked some rubbish in the gutter and I saw the note, just sitting there." He beamed. "It was thoughts of you that led me there, I'm certain, and so I want you to have it. You deserve it." I didn't know what to say. I reached out a finger to touch it, then paused and just stared. A whole pound, all for my own.

For the next couple days, I just kept the pound note with me, tucked into my bodice. I had a general idea of what I wanted, but I wasn't sure how to go about it.

"Papa," I asked one evening, after a particularly noxious meal consisting of a few rotten vegetables from the day before, "I think I know how I want to spend my money."

"And how's that, Nell?"

"It's a surprise. But will you take me to the market on Sunday?"

"Of course I will. I've got a surprise for you too. We'll exchange surprises at dinner on Sunday, how's that?"

So he took me to the market, and after making me promise I'd come find him as soon as I was finished shopping, and left me to my own devices.

I hardly knew where to start. It was so crowded, and there were so many smells and sights. I was overwhelmed.

"Lost something, miss?" a man said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. I snapped back into focus.

"No, thank you." I hurried away, intent on my mission. As I was passing one of the stands, a wonderful scent hit me full force. My stomach growled appreciatively, and I remembered I hadn't eaten yet that day. I stopped and looked at the stand, to find the source of the tantalizing smell.

"Would you like a mutton pie, dearie?" asked the woman at the stand. "Baked fresh today, piping hot." I considered for a moment, but my stomach made up my mind.

"How much?"

"A shilling for one."

"I'll take one." I handed over my pound, and the woman handed me my change and my pie. I tucked away the money, then stood with my eyes closed, inhaling the delicious, savory smell. Papa and I had never had anything this good to eat. Usually we couldn't afford it. I devoured it in three bites, and licked the grease off my fingers. I wanted more, but I knew I had to save the money for something else. I didn't even buy one for Papa, but the pie had given me an idea.

I spent the next two hours making my way through the market, haggling as best I could for small amounts of mutton, flour, salt, some lard, and a miniscule amount of cloves, which smelled nice and used up the rest of my pound. I wrapped everything in my shawl, and ran back to find my papa.

Making meat pies was not something I was totally prepared for. I made the crust with the flour, salt, and some of the lard. The rest went into the pie filling, with the cloves and the mutton. When they were ready to be baked, I had two little pies. They looked proper enough. I even poked little holes in the tops, like I had seen at the pie stand. I popped them into my oven, and waited for them to bake.

I pulled them out when they looked brown, and left them next to the hearth to wait for my papa to come home.

"How is my little Nell?" Papa asked when he came home. Mid-embrace, he stopped and sniffed. "Something burning, Nellie?"

"Oh no!" I ran to the hearth. I had put the pies too close to the fire, and they were starting to burn on one side. I rescued them from the worst of the burning, but there was no denying that the edges were scorched. We'd eaten burnt food before, I was just disappointed that my masterpieces were less than perfect. I put them on the little table Papa and I used.

"Supper's ready, Papa!" I announced. "I have a special treat tonight!" We sat down at the table.

"Oh, Nellie! You shouldn't have! Is this what you spent the money on? You're too good. I don't deserve a daughter like you." I blushed with pride.

"Take a bite, Papa!" I watched intently, waiting to see if he would like it. He picked it up and bit into it.

"Nellie, you've outdone yourself," he said as he was chewing. "This is the most amazing thing I think I have ever tasted!" As he was chewing his first bite, I bit into my own pie. The crust was fine, if a little hard. And a tad thick. And dry. I chewed. And chewed. And chewed! Finally, I gulped down the crust, and bit into the filling of the pie.

With that one bite, I pulled the entire filling out of the pie. I simply could not bite through the mutton, which, ignorantly, I had thought would fall apart in the pie. And the cloves were sitting on top in a puddle of lard, which dripped right off onto the table with the remains of the crust. I had not ground the meat, nor the spices. It was the most pathetic pie I had ever eaten. I started to cry.

"What's wrong, Nellie?" Papa asked, chewing on another mouthful of crust. I could see, through my tears, the chunk of mutton peeking through the holes in the crust.

"I made a terrible pie, Papa. I wasted the money on something we can't even eat!" I bawled self-pityingly.

"Now, now, dear. It's not so bad! The crust is just a bit thick, is all! Here…" He dumped out the grease, and broke a piece off of the crust. "Watch, it's perfect if you do this," as he proceeded to soak the crust in the lard. Then he popped it in his mouth. "See? Delicious!"

"But what about the mutton?" I sniffed.

"Well, now, Nellie, that's no problem at all! You'n me've got tough teeth. We'll just bite it without the crust." He tore savagely into the tough meat, and began to chew ferociously. The faces he made were enough. I began to laugh.

"Just like this?" I dipped the crust into the lard. The extra fat did make it less dry. And though the meat was tough, cooking it with the cloves had added the extra flavor I was hoping for. It wasn't bad. It was just a bad pie. Someday, I thought to myself, I'll be able to make pies properly. With ground meat and everything.


	2. Chapter 2

_She still makes pies, but they are nothing like what she'd dreamt of as a girl. Ellen dumps flour and lard into her little bowl and stirs. When it seems properly mixed, she dumps it onto the table, hardly caring that she's rolling it out over the dust. Flour is getting too hard to come by anyways to waste it on tabletops. She picks up the dough and sets it to the side, sweeping up the floury dust on the table into a small pile. She smiles, poking a little hole in the top, remembering one of the happiest times of her life._

After we finished the worst pies ever baked, I remembered something.

"Papa, you said you had a surprise for me. What is it? Did you find more money on the street?"

He laughed. "No, Nellie. Better'n that. Your mother's sister Nettie is coming to town. I got word from her that she just couldn't stay away and let you grow up a heathen." He threw a letter on the table. "I, ah, had the landlady read it for me." He looked away, embarrassed. Aunt Nettie had started to teach me how to read, in one of her few attempts to teach me to be lady-like. I didn't much like Aunt Nettie, but she had money, and whenever she came to visit, we ate a little better. I felt silly now for wasting money on the pie.

"When's she supposed to get here?" I asked, trying not to sound disappointed. Just then, there was a knock at the door to our little room, and before I could answer it, in swept Aunt Nettie.

My aunt was a force to be reckoned with. She was squeezed into what she supposed were fashionable clothes, and wore the most gigantic, moth-eaten hat. She fluttered a little fan in her white-gloved hands. The gloves were a little too small for her large, sausage-like fingers, and tended towards the gray side. I never saw her frequently enough to know for certain that she only had one pair, but I suspected as much.

"My my," she sniffed, looking around the room. "No one even opens a door for a visitor around here. Or stands when a _lady_," she smoothed her dress, "enters a room." My poor father stumbled out of his chair to stand, trying to show good breeding.

She flounced through the apartment and sat down in my papa's chair. "Come here, Ellen," she cooed. "Let Aunt Nettie have a look at you." I stood and hesitantly made my way over, feeling more than a little like a fly on a spiderweb. "I won't bite, child. Let me have a look!" I stood in front of her.

"Well, isn't she a scrawny thing." She reached up and pinched my cheek between two of those huge fingers. "Needs more meat on her bones, that's what the gentlemen like."

"Aunt Nettie, I'm not…"

"Hush, child. Didn't I teach you to speak when you're spoken too?" She tutted. "Very well. Let me talk to your papa for a while. Run along." I stayed where I was. My home was only one room. Where else would I go? I started to wash up the supper dishes, while Nettie lectured my father on how "cleanliness is next to godliness," and "suitable upbringing for a young lady" and other such talk.

"Come here, Ellen. Your father and I have something to tell you," Nettie demanded. Obediently, I stood by her chair.

"It has come to my attention that this little room is no place for a young lady. While I'm sure your father has done his best," she sniffed as she took in the surroundings, clearly implying that his best was not good enough, " it is much more appropriate for a young lady to spend her time amongst other ladies of good breeding, in order to be suitable to join society." I looked from her to my father, not understanding.

"What your Aunt Nettie is trying to tell you, love, is that you're going to go stay with her for a while. It's better for girls to be around women, and since your mother died, there aren't any women around to teach you to be a lady." My papa looked down, not meeting my eyes, and scraped some dirt out from under his fingernail.

"And this is the surprise, Papa? I'm going to stay with Aunt Nettie? I have to leave you?" I was horrified. My papa was the most important person in my life, and now I would have to leave him! "Can't you come with us?"

"Oh no, Ellen. That would be quite improper. Your father has his job at the docks to think of," looking reprovingly at me. "But think of it this way. You'll get to live by the seaside, in my home. The sea air is healthy for a young lady, much better than the air in the city." She sniffed again.

And so the next morning, I'd packed up my few belongings, and my father took me to the train station, where the huge black engine sat, belching steam. Aunt Nettie bundled me into the cramped passenger car, and we left my father behind. I waved as long as I could see him, but he stood, hands in the pockets of his breeches, head hanging.

Life with Aunt Nettie wasn't as horrid as I'd originally imagined, but it wasn't easy either. Aunt Nettie had a house near the seaside, but it was old, and as she put it, she simply "wasn't up to as much housework as she used to be," and certainly couldn't afford a maid. So it was up to me to keep up appearances, tying rags over my dresses to keep them from getting too dirty while I swept and dusted.

Mornings were spent visiting neighbors, or having lady callers. Aunt Nettie would gossip, while I sat quietly with my hands in my lap and tried to appear a lady. But in the afternoons, worn out from all the socializing, Aunt Nettie would take a nap. And then I had my chance.

I would leave the house, and walk down to the seaside by myself. Dressed in my drab clothes, no one ever gave me so much as a second look, which was how I liked it. I'd get down to the sand, and kneel down and just run my hands through it. While the seagulls called, and the waves boiled over the shore, I built sand castles, and sand pies, and dug holes, and collected seashells. It was so difficult to bring myself back to Aunt Nettie's house after that, but I always had to be cautious, lest she wake before I returned, or worse, before I'd dusted all the sand off my clothes and hands.

"Someday," I would vow to myself, "I will have my own house by the sea, and I will go down to the water every day for as long as I like. And someone else can do the dusting!"

_Ellen sighs as she begins to pound the dough with her rolling pin, then sets to work making it as thin as possible. She stops often to rest her arms, feeling wearily as if the pin were made of stone. She still longs for her own house by the seashore, but that dream is as hopeless as trying to keep her thinning, wild hair in respectable curls._


End file.
